1 rude reality intrudes
its bulging
and inflamed
nose, about

which hangs
the paunchy
and florid
cheeks,

blud strung
by fine and
very narrow
little veins,

that weblike
spider across.

in their thinness
straying
(uncarefully)
the neck down.

the hair is lank.

the eyes distended,
in which,
their is some sheen
dulled.

the ******* hang,
(are limp),
flaccid
and pendulous.

where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
hanging
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
issuing
verb
root
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single
straining
word

bursting

through all darkness

a fulgent
burning
FLOWER

i lay here in bed
and my wife’s
beside me her
breathbody is
rhythmically and
i can hear sleepness
which the curved
blades of her back
:(risingandfalling)
commit each after
each of breathing
which her ribs
contain and her nose
vents between cartilage
and membrane making
the finest whistle
only finer than the
thinnest fineness of
her hair which also
is and beside me which
catches the lamp light:::

      SHIMMERING

i will be dead someday i wonder are you
reading this and who are you and where
is it that you have come and been and
have your eyes collected between them
each word of myself and this is the only
thing i suppose being but dirt and a little
scant ash (maybe atree) grows above me
and did you ever think the same hands
that held your son would be worm food
mud and birds meal (a robin maybe) R
there still robins i hope you kissed a
pretty girl last night I love you more
than anything .
                          .
                          .

the wind is something
alive in my hand
and i look
thinking:
whose?

me,maybe?

after all i am occasionally myself.

the world is alive
and i think
who knows?

is death,
maybe and
perhaps but
always nothingly

arrives somethingly
between the pressed hips of Rose Buds:
a little song.

              (and why not?)

because aren’t pretty girls after all,

their own voice which
breaks over ilia

the only alive
which a pond is .

(and let me tell you i have been inside the neatness and warmth of pond and spring where the fronds extend between cloves of sunlight there was many pretty girls between the thigh and hip bone up to the knee in bracken smelling of some cheap summmer wine)

i love you
being the leg beneath mine
,my wife
who is
beautiful
and feels warmly
something softness which
i love to feel
.



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